Yo—
I don’t talk to God, I just plant and wait,
Hands in the mud while the pain translates.
Trauma been root-deep, blood in the seed,
But the garden don’t judge when I come to bleed.

Pulled up weeds like I’m yankin’ out memories,
Tears hit soil, now the dirt be a remedy.
Every leaf’s like a letter I sent to the sky,
Signed in sweat—no reply—but I still try.

Now I’m in it with the rhythm of the rainfall, drippin’ in a trance, call that my saints’ call—
Diggin’ in the grave of the man I was, hands get cut but I trust what the pain haul.
Lavender lungs and adrenaline veins, breathin’ in peace like a war in reverse,
Every curse I rehearsed in the worst of my thirst, now the garden just flips it to verse.

Compost dreams, yeah I rot what I lost,
Turn shame to a flame when the frost get tossed.
Even if I fall when the dark encroach,
Got a row of wild mint like a sacred host.

Snapdragon jaw, that grit, that growl,
Talk to the beetles when I can’t speak vowels.
Swear that the bees got a better advice
Than the last ten shrinks that bled me twice.

Dirt don’t lie—
It’ll take you whole,
Won’t gaslight pain or invoice your soul.
No padded room, no pills, no spin,
Just sun, just wind, just start again.

Barefoot prophet with a trowel and a temper,
Tatted up truths in the bark, I remember.
Healin’ ain’t cute—nah, it’s violent grace,
Pullin’ my past out, root by base.

I bled in the beds, I sobbed in the sage,
I stitched up rage with a rosemary page.
This ain’t no phase, it’s a field reborn,
I harvest the self that I thought was torn.

Now they ask why I smell like rain,
Why my eyes don’t hide that pain—
I tell ’em: I grow what the world tried to kill,
Still got dirt in my mouth, but I spit with skill.